Indeed, as I, khandu of the Etherial Kingdom of Mississippi, have taken unannounced leaves of absence from our Fair MOAB (or should that be "leaf of absences"?), the wonderfully well-bred Moabites have done exceedingly abundantly above my expectations! Yes, you are to be honored high above all non-Moabites! You have taken the humble glories of Bullshit to heights unimaginable, &, I believe, previously unattainable! Truly, you astound not only me, but all of creation!

Your "Mother" is proud of you & your accomplishment!

May I also express (as a "sidebar") my astonishment at one to whom, outside of Moab, I would refer as a "hated anonymous guest", but yet one who has proven his worthiness with his contributions of inspired Bullshit! The King thanks you, Unknown One!

Onward, my Fellow Moabites, you who need no King! Onward to the Reeking Heights of Utter Bullshit & GLORY!!

Thursday evening. Friday morning is soon. Friday evening not much longer. Thank goodness tomorrow is Friday, this has been one helluva long week. Maybe I'll think of something witty to say over the weekend. Meanwhile, here's a boost back to the top for our MOAB-capped Mother.

Tis' a journey unto the recognized, for all of the MOAB fate that does lieupon a beaten brow of fate,only to contemplatea movement of all accordian players to play until the dawn appears without the fearsbrilliantly validating a conspiracy to ears.

Folks wanted for hazardous journey. No wages, long periods of musical darkness. Any return at all doubtful. Success highly unlikely, but total lack of recognition and honour if somehow achieved. Apply within.

LEt us not to the congress of Good Mindes Admit this excrement, disguised As Noble Art, while neither art nor nobility Do therein dwell -- this sort of scheme Idly promting the whimns and grim ambitions of A failure long since gone from the lists Unable to joust or race or throw Like an old man gumming in the sun, WIshing for kisses--how pathetic Such a hollow, rootless, claim! It has no merit, bears no recognizance, Stands no virtue for inspection or public weal, ANd best 't'were shunned and banned herefrom!

The quality of MOAB is not strain'd. It droppeth as the gentle thread from heaven Unto the place beneath. It is twice blest: It blesseth him that writes, and him that reads. 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The starfleet captain better than his rank. His phaser shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of bodrhans; But mercy is above this goatskin'd sway; It is enthroned in the heart of Canadians; It is an attribute to Shatner himself; And earthly power doth then show likest Shatners's When MOAB seasons writing.

All human things are subject to decay, And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obey: This LAWRENCEWELK found, who, like Augustus, young Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long: In music and song, was own'd, without dispute Through all the realms of Non-sense, absolute. This aged prince now flourishing in peace, And blest with issue of a large increase, Worn out with business, did at length debate To settle the succession of the State: And pond'ring which of all his sons was fit To reign, and wage immortal war with wit; Cry'd, 'tis resolv'd; for nature pleads that he Should only rule, who most resembles me: TWEED alone my perfect image bears, Mature in dullness from his tender years. TWEED alone, of all my sons, is he Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity. The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, But TWEED never deviates into sense. Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through and make a lucid interval; But TWEED's genuine night admits no ray, His rising fogs prevail upon the day: Besides his goodly fabric fills the eye, And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty: Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain, And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. His warbling guitar, with which he whilom strung When to King KHANDU was so bravely sung, Was but the prelude to that glorious day, When thou on muddy Mississippi did'st cut thy way, With well tim'd oars before the royal barge, Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge; And big with hymn, commander of an host, The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets toss'd. Methinks I see the new Arion sail, The guitar still trembling underneath thy nail. At thy well sharpen'd thumb from shore to shore The treble squeaks for fear, the basses roar: Echoes from Pissing-Alley, TWEED doth call, And TWEED they resound from Aston Hall. About thy boat the little fishes throng, As at the morning toast, that floats along. Sometimes as prince of thy harmonious band Thou wield'st thy ACCORDION in thy threshing hand. St. Cecilia's feet ne'er kept more equal time, Not ev'n the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme: Though they in number as in sense excel; So just, so like tautology they fell, That, pale with envy, Carol C forswore The piano accordion which she in triumph bore And vow'd she would polka never more. Here stopt the good old sire; and wept for joy In silent raptures of the hopeful boy. All arguments, but most his blues, persuade, That for anointed instrument he was made.

Geez, Louise! Where do you guys get the time to write this stuff? I could manage the faux-Seuss stuff, but the rest would take considerable effort! I stand in awe of both the available time and talent you two pour into this tiny inconsequential subject. No one in Florida is going to notice--they'll just think it's something left behind by the hurricane. :)

I say this AFTER not being able to nuke the thing via rockets from space invaders. I messed up enough of the Southeastern U.S. with popcorn. If we can't influence a thing, we have to learn to live with it or ignore it.

(Enter SCRIMSHAW, an ancient sailor on hard times ashore, carrying a palm, a needle, a rigger's knife, a spool of whipping twine, and a sign reading "WILL SPLICE FOR FOOD!". He sits cross legged stage left and begins serving an end of rope.)

Scrimshaw: "Now has one hand the fate of world's revised! With simple brilliance, in a natural wise, Bold Tweed, heroic in his stature and his sight Has bravely brought to dusky shadows fulsome light. Thus in his brilliance, in an era cold, He has new warmth begot through tactics bold And with a single stroke of wise conceit Laid mouldy fixed opinions off thier feet And paved the path for new things well-begun, Bazoukis, dirndls and the fair accordion!"

(He lays his work aside and looks up as Lord Neanderthal, accompanied by the Lady Whinge-Jammer, come into the room, accompanied by a Page).

NEanderthal:

Sailor! How is it with thy wounds?

Scrimshaw:

They heal sir, but slowly.

NEanderthal:

And what of that violent sacrilege, the Lord Tweed and his accordion?

Scrimshaw: It is well bespoke abroad, good sir, and the people expect fair sounds from the devils breeches!

Neanderthal: I would ne'er have believed to ever hear such heresy from an honest sailor! Come sir, come!! Make your amends!! You are remiss!!

Scrimshaw: I never have sir, not once, and never can do twice without.

NEanderthal: Rogue!! Thou speakest gibberish to me? Go to, go to!

Scrimshaw: Nay sir, and always have I aimed so well and never missed That in good conscience I may not plead to this -- While in remission, yet I never was remiss!

NEanderthal: Well, you are a rogue in every case, sirrah. What news of our Precious Shipment?

Scrimshaw: Sir, it is enroute, and as precious as ever, or else it has been tried and hung.

Neanderthal: Play you the fool with me, by all that holy is?

Scrimshaw: Nay sir, and the shipment has arrived, it will be hung, and Tweed's own neck the gallows thereof; and if there, it must be tried, once hung. And as to all that holy may be, the last of all things his dun accordion, or it will have no bearing on affairs at all.

Page: Sire, a report has been received of a UPS operator entering the abode of yon Tweed; methinks you wished to be advised.

Neanderthal: Aye, and thanks, good Page. Refresh, reload, and here's a penny for your threads, I will away to stop this chaos at the very moment of its birth! (He exits stage right)

Scrimshaw: A bolder estimate by far than most of that miserable state will make, having hard-learned the price for standing in the path of wind-born chaos! But never mind; I sense the hour of Tweed's bold escape from all things ordinary is upon us. We must protect ourselves from the monstrous storm he will unleash, and find ourselves a place of safety!

Behold the knit of our most precious clan Ripped cruelly asunder by our Tweed's dark plan Who ere the youthful flush of MOAB's e'en begun Will have it wasted by a dun accordion And thus to trembling shards reduced, It's men unmanned, and all its women goosed, Its policies and government made dumb And all its sense and humor turnèd numb. All from this music, essence of corruption! Its caterwaul the hymn of our disruption, And at the hand of this fell Southern toker Our harmony destroyed by mindless ooompah polka!

Rather proclaim it, Amos, through MOAB, That s/he which hath no stomach to this concert, Let her/him depart; his/her passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his/her purse: We would not e'en die in that wo/man's company That fears her/his fellowship to listen with us. This day is call'd the feast of Genesius: S/He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, And nauseate her/himself at the name of Tweed. S/He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his/her neighbours, And say, 'To-morrow is Saint Genesius:' Then will s/he strip her/his ears and show his/her aids, And say, 'These wounds I had on Genesius's day.' Old wo/men forget: yet all shall be forgot, But s/he'll remember with advantages What things s/he listened to that day. Then shall our names, 56 Familiar in her/his mouth as household words, Rapaire, Bee Dubya Ell, SRS and Amos, MMario and Rustic, Khandu and Little Hawk, Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd. This story shall the good wo/man teach his/her daughter/son; And St. Genesius's Day shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered; We few, we happy few, we band of survivors; For s/he to-day that sheds her/his hearing with me Shall be my sister/brother; be s/he ne'er so vile This day shall gentle his/her condition: And gentle wo/men in Mudcat, now a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their wo/manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That listens with us upon Saint Genesius's day.

Now is the winter of our discontent, Made brilliant summer by the boldest Tweed; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern accordions brought out to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures changed. Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front, And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly on a lady's squeezebox To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I -- that am not shap'd for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass -- I-that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph -- I -- that am curtail'd of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time Into this breathing world scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them -- Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to play accordion in the sun And descant on mine own deformity.

Alas! poor Tweed. I knew him, Bee-Dubya; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath played his blues a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that sang blues I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your guitar? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chapfallen? Now get you to Carol C's chamber, and tell her, let her practice accordion as she will, to this favour she must come.

Our dear friend Tweed has now succumbed To the lure of "accordion", That foulest of all instruments A box well known to cause offense And make small children run away, A thing that a madman would play.

Have pity on poor Tweed's guitar That he will disown and ignore As he his neighbors does harangue With polkas and "Lady of Spain" Until the poor souls move away To someplace quieter, like Bombay.

And give a thought to Tweed's poor wife Who's lived with him through toil and strife Who must find a new place to stay Unless she wants to hear him play "Roll Out the Barrel" all night long Or some other obnoxious song.

It's farewell to the Tweed we knew As he becomes an idjit who Sits with grin firmly locked in place Upon his drooling idjit face. Our warnings he just would not heed So it's "Goodbye" to our friend Tweed.

SILENCE

Word has come from Tweedsville that the Dreaded Accordion has reached its destination point. It is quite possibly in the hands of our dear friend Tweed and beginning its foul acts of transformation upon that once gentle soul at this very moment.

How interesting -- this should be added to one of the many religious claptrap threads around here -- perhaps sending it to Dewey would handle it. It would have to be terribly satisfying to those on the philosophical right to think their peculiar brand of overweening indoctrination was a prerequisite to REALLY getting along well with WindowS!

I went to a parochial grade school, Amos. We learned abjection, discipline, and self-abasement. We learned to love the lash, to kiss the rod, to grovel before Authority, to crawl upon our bellies like the slime molds we were, to pray for the pain to stop, to beg on bleeding knees for forgiveness. This early education served me well when I was a Unix systems administrator.

Hellooo out there in never-ever land. I had to stop in to let you all know, I want you all to go forth with blessed nipples and may ye nipples be suckled this evening, if not then, the next, or the next after that or the next... The blessing nipple blesser- aka-Rustic

Okay, Tweed. I give up. I've done my best, but it looks like I've failed. (Insert sound of long mournful sigh HERE) It just breaks my heart to see another poor misguided soul who should know better succumb to the shallow, vacuous, cheap thrills of accordion playing.

Just remember when you get it all out of your system that there'll always be a seat for you at your local chapter of Accordions Anonymous. All you have to do is have the courage to admit that you are powerless over accordions, that you truly believe a power greater than yourself can rid you of the desire to play accordion, and that you are truly sorry for the pain and suffering your accordion playing has inflicted upon others.

Then you get to recite the

ACCORDIONS ANONYMOUS PRAYER

God, grant me the ability to play guitar, The courage to smash accordions, And the wisdom to know the difference.

I hed a dog thet would do the glissade thing on the rug in the front room. Funny how he knew bout glissadin' az he were a real dumbass obv a dog. Jerry Lee Lewis would glissade on hiz piano oft times too. When my beautiful accordeen arribves I also will glissade down it's mother obv toilet seat keys.

Beedzerbya, it iz a forsc obv nature what canot be halted nor heeled. The mail must go through and ef you clikc here, you will see thet thar are many in my corner to help me through this time obv transendus!The Legion obv Accordeenaires

I've wiped out a couple of pairs of pants while glissading (the version of sliding on your butt when descending from a mountain peak). It's darned embarrassing to stand up and your undies are exposed to the world! (Good thing I had a pair of windpants to wear the rest of the way, and had to walk or standing glissade--you don't want to sit and slide in windpants or you'll go out of control very quickly).

Well, Bee Dubya, up in Hoosierland you'd find things are done a bit differently. When a Hoosier wants to use a portapotty as a canoe, s/he don't need a creek or river or anything! And no, they don't paddle 'em on dry land, neither. They tip 'em over in such a way that the holding tank provides the necessary "roadway". And if the holding tank doesn't have quite enough "roadway material" in it (like, for example, if its been recently emptied or they're gonna have a canoepotty race), they get a bunch of their friends together and add whatever it necessary.

And during the Winter AND the Summer folks in the hilly parts of Indiana use them portapotties like tobaggans! During the winter they slide 'em down the snow-covered hills of Hoosierland, and in the summer they slide 'em down the hills by using the more solid contents of the holding tanks, cow "leavings", and stuff like that. During the winter races goggles are recommended; during the summer races they're a neccesity (and it's a real good idea to tobaggan with your mouth closed, too).

Just a little something to keep our poor Mom from sliding too far down the page....

In an earlier post I remarked that no portable toilets were used as canoes at a festival which I attended in northern Indiana because, in part, there were no rivers nearby. Rapaire subsequently informed me that there are, in fact, several rivers nearby.

I believe we're assigning different values to the word "nearby". Rapaire's "nearby" seems to mean "within a reasonable automobile drive". My "nearby" means "close enough that you could drag the portable toilet to the water without getting a hernia".

You see, I am accustomed to attending festivals at sites where a body of water either borders or flows through the festival site. So far this year I have been at festivals on or a short portage from The Matanzas Inlet, The Blackwater River, The St. Johns River, Pensacola Bay, The Santa Rosa Sound, Mobile Bay, The Suwanee River, and The Gulf of Mexico. At any of these sites drunks hijacking PortaPotties and using them as canoes has been a possible, though, admittedly, unlikely occurence.

In fact, the only time I have ever seen a portable toilet used as a canoe was at a bluegrass festival at Shoal Creek Park in Lavonia, Georgia in 1977. (That was the same festival at which an intoxicated motorcyclist tried to drive his Harley onto a tree which overhung Shoal Creek and wound up in the creek [bike included] instead.) Perhaps if I attended more music festivals at the Spirit of the Suwanee Music Park where things certainly do get wild I would see yet another portable toilet floating down a river. But, since those festivals afford me no opportunity to make money and cost a goodly amount to attend, I doubt it's gonna happen.

When it was pointed out to the aforementioned highway officials that, in considering moving I-95 and The Turnpike, they appeared to be neglecting venerable U.S. Highway One, one official replied, "Anyone who would drive more than a couple of miles on US One already has severe brain damage anyway. Having to listen to 'Lady of Spain' probably won't hurt 'em."